The King and His Shadow
by T. Fowler
Summary: Spot Conlon would do anything for his Brooklyn boys. Sometimes, he might do things that he knows ain't exactly right.
1. Chapter 1

The night was warm and humid against Spot's skin. Summer. That meant autumn was just around the corner, which meant winter would follow. Winter meant bitter cold, and that meant sick kids and less sales, which meant _hungry_ sick kids. And Spot didn't want to think about it right now. His head was spinning, and his pockets were full. Things were taken care of for this month. Next month would take care of itself.

He turned around a pylon and headed down the gangway. His feet ran ahead of the rest of his body. He stumbled, arm flying out to catch himself on the rough, unfinished wood of the dock. The world tilted and writhed around him, the result of too much to drink. Not just beer, but three big tumblers of Scotch and a strange French wine called Vin Marian. That had really punched him up. Made everything okay, everything really, really... good.

He could tell that buzz was wearing off now. But he was still floating enough that he didn't care about anything. Not right now.

After a long trek made all the longer by the way the gangplank kept rolling out for miles in front of him, Spot reached the lower level of the pier. Floundered over to a barrel and then climbed on it. Shoes, socks, pants were strewn over the wooden planks. He could hear water splashing down below.

"Sammy?" he called, tilting his head back towards the stars. The wind blew, cooling the flush on his heated face. "That you?"

The only answer was an increase of splashing. Then there was the tidal wave sound of a body being heaved out of water. A moment later, Sammy appeared.

Spot watched as his partner in crime moved toward him. Sammy was better known as Shadow; in fact, Spot was the only one who called him Sammy. The kid had showed up in Brooklyn about two years ago. No one knew him, no one had ever seen him. He just appeared out of thin air, bought his papes and went out to sell. For almost three weeks he'd done that. Never saying nothing to anyone, not even to Red, who'd been the leader back then. Sammy was allowed to stay because he didn't cause any trouble, never appeared on anyone's territory, never stuck his neck out. But no one knew anything about him. He showed up in the morning and disappeared after his last pape was sold, slipping back into the shadows of the city.

Back then, Spot had been concerned with securing his place as the next leader of the Brooklyn newsboys. Red was aging out of the game, and Spot knew he was the only one smart enough to take over. But he had to be more than smart. He had to be tough, too.

What God had given Spot in brains, he'd neglected in brawn. That didn't mean Spot couldn't hold his own.

The day Sammy had officially become Shadow, Spot had gotten into it with two older boys who thought they could bully some of the little ones. It was him against them, and he'd been doing fine. Bloody, bruised, but he was giving it back just as good. Had knocked one out and was working on the second, when, suddenly, there'd been a shout.

"Spot, behind you!"

He'd whirled at the warning to find a third guy sneaking up on him, a metal pole in his hand, raised and ready to bring down on Spot's head.

Spot feinted. Had just moved when, out of nowhere, a rock flew through the air. Cut into the thug's temple, gouging a huge chunk of flesh. Blood spurted, flooding into his eyes.

The thug howled.

The crowd around them, incensed at the foul play, got a weapon to Spot. He brought it down on the thug's head, turned and took out the man he'd been facing before.

Sammy had been the one who'd shouted the warning. He'd shot the rock with his slingshot with unerring skill. From that day on, he'd been with Spot every step of the way. At his back in fights. Keeping kids out of the Refuge. Distributing the wealth to those starving kids who needed it. He was Spot's Shadow, and Spot never did anything without him.

Except, of course, once a month. When Spot had his own business he had to do that no one knew about. Could ever know about. Not Sammy, not no one.

Sammy, dressed in his wet underwear, climbed on a box across from Spot's. He folded his legs under him. Combed his fingers through his hair. "Where you been?"

Spot didn't answer. Kept looking at Sammy. His eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, all grey and shiny. Light eyes, dark rings around them. Long, dark lashes. Captivating. Kid sold over half his papes because of those eyes. Women loved them, loved when Sammy batted his eyelashes and gazed up at them. Men weren't immune, neither. They were a witch's eyes. Or whatever a boy witch was called. He did magic with 'em.

"Spot?"

He blinked. Shook his head, then latched back onto those eyes, the center of the world in the spinning.

When Spot still didn't answer, Sammy sighed. Looked off over the water. "Rolli-Polli lost his papes to a milk truck. Near got run over himself. Driver was drunk and the horse got free. Rolli hurt his ankle, got a cut on his face and is pretty banged up. He's practically starving, so I gave him half of what I made today. Got Richie and Lil' Bob to buy him meals."

"Ain't he selling?"

"Not much. Kid's shy."

Spot rubbed his forehead. "Shortstop can train him the next few days. They might be a good team. He's all brash, Rolli's shy and sweet. People like contrasts like that. And Shortstop's always had trouble selling to ladies."

"Rolli don't sell to no one."

"So, Shorty will teach him how to get started. I'll talk to 'em tomorrow."

Sammy nodded. Grabbed his shirt and pants and pulled them on. He fished out a cigarette from his pants' pocket. Lit it. "You all right?" He pulled on the cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke.

He scrubbed at his neck. His arms. He was coming down now, feeling all uncomfortable. Not like before. "I'm fine," he lied. "Why?"

"You keep squirming. Look like you wanna wiggle out of your skin."

He hadn't realized. But, yeah, his skin was prickling, like ants marching up and down his body.

The grey eyes were latched onto Spot's face. Contemplative. Smoke circled Sammy's head, dissipating rings that he enjoyed blowing.

He blew another set before speaking again. "You smell like alcohol. I can smell you from here."

"I was out drinkin' with Jacky and his boys."

"No, you weren't." Statement. Matter of fact, no guessing.

"What? You following me or something?"

Sammy blew another chain of rings. Shook his head and ground out the cigarette. "Don't need to follow you to know you're lying. I know you." He shrugged. "Anyway, I was too busy to trail you. Rolli wasn't the only problem around here."

Spot bristled. He hated being judged. Having it coming from Sammy was the worst kind of betrayal. Especially on account of what Spot had been doing.

White hot rage blinded him. He pushed off from the barrel and threw himself at Sammy. Fisted his shirt, tugged him up. "You implying I ain't handling the problems around here? That I abandoned you or somethin'?"

Sammy just looked up at him. Hands at his sides, face up. Shorter than Spot, but never intimidated by anything.

"I ain't implying anything. I'm just sayin'. You weren't here, and I was too busy putting out fires to follow you around."

"Sometimes, fires need burn without me. I can't do everything." He pulled Sammy closer only to shove him away.

Sammy stumbled back. Caught himself against the box he'd been sitting on. "Something wrong, Spot?" he drawled in a dry voice.

"No." He retreated from Sammy. Into the shadows of the pier. Turned away, leaned his forehead against the pylon. "No, there ain't nothin' wrong. Just wound up. Drunk and... sick. Whatever."

Silence. Then Sammy cleared his throat. "Almost ever since I've known you, every month you disappear. Once Red stepped down and put you in charge, you're gone. You tell me everything, but you don't tell me this."

"It's nothing you need to worry about."

"First I thought it was a girl. Then, maybe, gambling. Or opium or something."

"It's not anything like that." Spot turned. Leaned against the pylon. "Stuff like that screws with your head. They all cost money. I ain't in this life to lose."

Sammy nodded. "Except you're unhappy. It hurts, whatever you're doing. You come back drunk. More than. You snap at everyone. Mean. Hurtin'. I don't like seeing it. And I don't like that you won't tell me."

"It's nothing..."

"What if something happens to you?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Spot," he started again.

He interrupted. "Sammy." He sighed. "What I do, where I go. It's to keep you safe. All of you."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember when we first became partners? I took you out to the park. Sent you over to those men to sell?"

Sammy nodded.

"I told you never to go without me. But if you wanted to secure your sales, do what they wanted?"

He nodded again. "Yeah. And they always wanted me to sit on their laps. Until I got too old. Every morning. Made a fortune off them."

"You never went there without me, right?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Never. You told me not to."

Relieved, Spot sagged a bit. "Well, those were bad men, Sammy. Real bad. Only reason I let you near them was cause you're tough and I was there to look after you. Those men, they wanted to..."

"I ain't stupid. I know what those kinds of men do to kids."

Right. Of course he did. Sammy wasn't stupid. He knew about people.

"Do those men have anything to do with where you disappear?"

"Kind of." He clenched his fists. "Sammy..."

"Just tell me, Spot. Because the next time, I will follow you. I let it go on too long."

"You can't follow me."

"You can't shake your shadow, Spot." He gave him a small smile. "I'll follow you and won't be able to see me. I'll see where you go, what you do. And if I don't like it, I'll get you out."

"No." This time, it wasn't anger that drew him away from the pylon. It was fear. Fear, and he hated feeling fear. But it wasn't fear for himself. He was taken care of. "Sammy, you can't. You can't follow me. Christ, if you do..."

"If I do, what? Spot, what is it that you do?"

He closed his eyes, hands seeking out Sammy's shoulders. Gripping them. "Look, there are things I have to do to take care of us. Things. Deals. The little ones starve and it ain't right. They need clothes and a place to stay."

"We cover it. We take care of our own."

"Yeah, but, sometimes it takes a little extra." He opened his eyes again. "A little grease to make a bull look the other way. To get a coat or socks or shoes without holes. To keep those men away from my boys. And keep the pimps away from 'em, too."

Sammy narrowed his eyes. "So, what? You pimp yourself?"

"It ain't like that," he said, shaking his head. "I... they're just some rich, bored men. They like me I look young. That's all. Just once a month, just a few hours. And then I've got enough money for the month to make sure everyone survives."

The look Sammy was giving him broke Spot's heart. Wide, horrified eyes. Mouth open. Face, too pale even in the moonlight.

"Spot." He reached out. Placed a shaking hand against Spot's chest. Up to his neck, then his cheek. "You don't have to..."

"They wanted you. Way back. I said no and traded. They keep asking for other boys, but I keep them away. It's just me who can do business with them."

"No one needs to do this with them. There's got to be another way. I mean... Jack Kelly don't..."

"Jack Kelly don't care about no one but Jack Kelly. Manhattan ain't like us. Brooklyn takes care of its own. All of 'em." He rubbed his nose, closing his eyes. "It's not so bad. They don't do anything bad to me. Just… I don't know. Like me to touch them. Like to touch me." He shrugged. Opened his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat as he said, "It feels kinda good."

Sammy shook his head. "But you don't feel good about it. You come back sick, like you're on something. Come back ashamed."

"Sometimes a man's gotta…"

"No." Sammy pushed him. Then grabbed him, fisting Spot's shirt. "There are things a man's gotta do to protect his own. This ain't one of them. You're not a toy. And you're not going anywhere to let some dirty men play with you like you is one. We can get money some other way."

"Not…" He exhaled hard, feeling helpless. "It's easy money."

"It's dirty money. I'm not letting you do it anymore."

Spot got into Shadow's face. His jaw is clenched and fists balled. "You don't tell me what to do. I'm the leader of Brooklyn. Me. You answer to me."

But Sammy just shook his head. "You. Are not ever going back."

The prickly sensation in his skin has gotten worse. It felt like a thousand bugs biting him. And his brain wasn't working too well, either. He wanted to sleep. But there was fire in veins, and he was shaking.

"You don't tell me what to do! I can make my own Goddamn decisions about what's right for my boys. If I want to let some sick bastards touch me and make me come, then what's it your business?"

"You want someone to rub your dick, fine, I don't care. You could have a whole line of men do it for you, in broad daylight for all I care. But you're not selling yourself like some cheap whore!"

Spot socked him. Right in the face, catching him in the eye.

Sammy came back at him. Threw himself, arms around Spots middle, pushing him to the docks. They wrestled a few moments before Spot flipped them. Straddled Sammy and punched him again.

Blood burst from his nose, flooding the lower half of his face.

Sammy squirmed and slid out from under Spot. "I don't have to take this," he said, swiping at his nose and smearing the blood across his face. "You want to play like you's a martyr, go ahead. I ain't watching it." Angrily, he grabbed his shoes and shoved his feet in them.

"Where you think you're going?"

"Away from you."

His stomach turned over. Spot knew he was going to be sick any moment. The shakes were getting worse and saliva was filling his mouth. "Fine. Get outta here. I don't want you around anyway."

"Good."

"Yeah, good!"

Sammy stormed off.

Spot turned and just managed to lean over the side of the dock before he lost his dinner. And, because of where he'd been, he'd had quite a bit of it. He kept vomiting until he was pretty sure he could taste blood. His head pounded and his face was sticky with sweat. Cold, even in the humid heat of the Brooklyn night.

He felt like dirt. Like lower than dirt. Like a maggot. And he'd punched up his best friend on top of it.

Well. Sammy would come back. This wasn't their first fight. Wouldn't be their last. For right now, Spot needed sleep.

He leaned over the edge of the dock again and spit the last of the vile taste from his mouth. Then, still unsteady on his feet, and feeling lower than low, he headed up the docks to the lodging house, hoping his bed wouldn't be too cold without Sammy at his side.

* * *

Spot woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a black cloud surrounding him. It was so heavy and oppressive that he felt tears pricking behind his eyes and didn't even know why. He wasn't weak. He didn't cry. But everything felt so hopeless and desolate. Life was a black hole and he was stuck in the middle.

To make things worse, he was missing his shadow. He knew he'd been an ass last night, that he never shoulda hit Sammy. But he'd been so angry. So messed up. So…

Ashamed.

And that was the real truth of it. He was ashamed of what he'd been doing. Of who he'd been with and of being found out. Yeah, like he told Sammy, in the middle of it all, it felt all right. The alcohol and food was good. The hands on him was fine. In the heat of it, he could ignore what he was doing and just lose himself in the hedonistic pleasure of it all.

But after. When he was walking home, head spinning, skin crawling, remembering what he'd done… and the money in his pocket reminding him of what he was…

It wasn't so good then. So, like Sammy'd said, Spot got mean. He lashed out. And Sammy had been caught in it.

He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. He could hear the rest of the boys getting up and getting ready, but he didn't want to move. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed a ton of lead.

"Hey, Spot!" someone called. "Where's Shadow?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Of all the fucking nights to forget to pull the sheet closed. He and Shadow didn't pay for a private room—neither wanted to spend the money—but they'd scouted a bunk in the corner and hung a sheet in front of it to give them privacy. Usually, Spot pulled it shut when he went to bed. Usually.

"Why's that your business?" he croaked out, throat bone dry.

"Just wondering where your shadow is. Rare to see you without."

He swallowed hard, a pain lancing through his throat. "Shadow and I had a disagreement last night. He's off licking his wounds."

A silence fell. No, it wasn't Spot and Shadow's first fight, but it was a rare occurrence. Shadow didn't usually talk enough to fight with. He was a presence at Spot's back, silent and strong. Confident. He radiated competence and helped Spot keep the boys in line.

Not that he couldn't do that on his own. But having a right-hand man helped.

"What'd you fight about?"

He let out a long sigh. Rolled onto his back and pulled the blanket off his face. "It was a private matter." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and itchy. His mouth tasted like old vomit. Well. After sneaking into the lodging house after hours, he'd gone straight to bed without bothering to brush his teeth.

Arms and legs barely cooperating, he climbed out of bed.

The boys were silent as he crossed the room to the bathroom. Watching him. Worried.

"You look sick," one of the boys said.

Spot tried to summon the ire needed to get into his face and stare him down. But he couldn't. So, he just said, "I'm fine," and kept going. He used the toilet, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth. Shaved, although, once again, Mother Nature had been disinclined to grant him any facial hair to warrant the use of a razor. He could smell the aroma of stale alcohol on him, but it'd be too much trouble to take a bath right now. He'd take a dip at the docks later, if he felt any better. Way he felt, all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep for the next hundred years.

All the boys had a subdued air as they left the lodging house to get to work. Spot could hear the whispers behind him, his boys speculating what was going on, if they needed to be worried, what they should do. A couple younger ones ran off and returned with a mug of coffee and bacon sandwich for him.

"Thanks, kids," he said, taking both. The coffee helped clear some of the fog in his brain. The sandwich was nearly rejected by his still sensitive stomach, but ultimately stayed down and went some way to making him feel marginally more human.

They made it to the paper before the gate opened. The headline wasn't even up yet. Spot finished off his coffee, looking around. When he eyes fell on Rolli, and he saw the kid's banged up face and the limp he was sporting, he remembered his conversation with Sammy the night before.

"Shortstop," he called. He finished the coffee and handed the mug off to a kid.

Shortstop came running up. He was a young kid, about nine, with a lean face and bright eyes. He wore a ratty Brooklyn Dodger's cap he'd found on the street and had a baseball mitt tied with a string to his pants. "Yeah, Spot?" he asked, breathless with excitement from being singled out.

"I need you to show Rolli-Polli the game. Rolli, get over here."

Eyes going wide, the other boy limped over. He was almost curled in on himself with fear, trying to hide.

Spot crouched down in front of him. "So. Shadow told me you had some trouble yesterday."

He nodded in short, jerky movements.

"Don't worry about it. We've all had a run in with a milk truck or a carriage or something. Nothing to be ashamed of. But you ain't selling like you need to. You don't sell, you starve. You got that, right?"

"Y-yes. I know." He licked his lips and hunched his shoulders some more.

Spot clapped his hand on Rolli's arm. "You're going to stick around with Shortstop for a few days. He'll show you the best selling spots and show you how to get people to buy your papers. There ain't no reason you can't be selling fifty a day. A hundred a day. You're young, you're strong, and you've got round, fat cheeks that the ladies love." He poked one of Rolli's cheeks. "Just remember to look 'em in the eye and give it your best. Okay?"

"Okay, Spot." He seemed to inflate, shoulders straightening and chest puffing out. "I won't let you down."

Spot smiled and tapped the kid on the head with his cane. "Good man." He stood up and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "We got a headline yet?"

"They're posting it now."

He went to the gate and leaned against it, looking inside. And groaned as the headline was revealed: Trolley Strike Drags on for Third Week.

A collective groan went up from the newsies.

"How the hell am I supposed to sell with that headline?"

"Can't they even pretend to write something more interesting?"

"Come on, boys," Spot said, even though his heart was sinking. He could sell anything. Most days. Today, he wasn't sure he could sell the best headline to easiest mark. He wasn't feeling himself today. Like part of him was missing.

Like he drove part of himself off.

"You know what they say. Headlines don't sell papes. We do. Don't be intimated. We're newsies. We're Brooklyn. And we ain't gonna let a little thing like a headline ruin our day. Are we?"

"No!"

"All right then." He straightened his cap and twirled his cane, putting on a good show for his boys. "Let's go sell some papes."


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Sammy crossed the bridge and entered Manhattan, his nose had stopped gushing blood and had slowed to a trickle. He kept feeling it gingerly, trying to decide if it was broken or not. It was swollen and tender to the touch but didn't seem to be outta place or nothing. Probably not broken. Least not this time.

It was too late to try and check into at the lodging house on Duane Street, so he found side street that wasn't too disgusting and settled in for the night. He tried to close his eyes and doze off, but his mind was whirling too much.

Spot was selling himself for the good of the Brooklyn newsies. Sammy didn't know how to deal with that news. He blamed himself. He should have followed Spot months ago and found out what was going on. He'd known that it couldn't be anything good, not the way Spot acted when he got back. Spot was always worse than drunk. He was off. Those men were giving him something other than alcohol to ensure Spot was nice and relaxed when they…

Sammy's mind shied away from the end of that thought. He knew a little about what men did with each other, thanks to an insomniac ramble through the park one night. He'd stumbled across a couple men doing some interesting things. Like most people, they hadn't seen Shadow, probably on account of how busy they were, and he'd gotten quite an education.

It didn't sound like the men Spot had been with had done most of the stuff Sammy had seen that night. But he didn't want to think about Spot being used by those men. It made Sammy feel things that he didn't want to examine. Things besides anger and indignation and confusion.

So, he tried to make himself as comfortable as he could against the brick wall and forget about Spot. And impossible feat, but eventually his mind stopped spinning quite so much and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When he woke up, his mouth was dry as a bone on account of him having to breathe through his mouth all night. Feeling creaky, he got up made his way toward the World headquarters. Found water, which went some way to making him feel less like an old dried out bone. Found a stall and bought a coffee and a bun for breakfast. Then headed out to the gates of the World, where Jack Kelly and his boys were already gathered and making trouble with the Delancey brothers.

Sammy hung back, watching as Jack scuffled with the older boys. Looked around, taking note of who was there and how they were looking. He noticed a new boy, new not because Sammy didn't know him—he didn't know a lot of the Manhattan boys—but because he looked like a new penny. Shirt tucked in, freshly washed, face clean, hair combed. He stuck out amongst the generally ragged boys.

The fight finally ended with Jack as victor. Now that Jack was free, Sammy pushed his way through the crowd and approached him.

Jack was shooting the breeze with Racetrack, back to Sammy. Race saw him first. His eyes widened and he pulled his cigar from his mouth.

"Jack." He nodded at Sammy.

Jack turned. When he saw Sammy, both his eyebrows went up. "Woah. I bet I should see the other guy, shouldn't I? Spot know someone worked you over, Shadow?"

Sammy rolled his eyes and tilted his head.

"Right." Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "Course he knows, because he's the one who did it to you. Which is why you're here." He cleared his throat. "You need a place to sell?"

"For a few days."

"Yeah, you can sell here. Just don't take no one's spot. Race, mind showing Shadow where to go?"

Race nodded. "No problem."

"I can give you ten percent," Sammy said. "But with this face and that headline, I ain't selling much today, so…"

"Don't worry about it." Race waved it away. "You can owe me a solid. Besides, I got a sure thing on a horse today. Come this evening, I'll be rolling in it."

Grateful for the reprieve, Sammy offered Race a tentative smile. "Thanks."

Race made a dismissive noise and put his cigar back into his mouth. "Let's go sell some papes."

Sammy took half as much as he usually did, and even then, he almost didn't sell them all. People don't want to buy from a kid that looked like a thug, and between his swollen nose and racoon eyes, that was exactly what he looked like. Spot always said that Sammy could sell just based on his eyes alone, but now the dramatic coloring was obscured by the black rings that have developed beneath them.

But Sammy was a professional. For the ladies, he played up his injuries, appearing weaker than he was. For the men, he put on a tough face and bragged about taking down a guy three times his size. Eventually, he got all his papes sold and, for his riveting story and ability to suck down a mug of beer in thirty seconds, even earned an extra quarter.

"I actually hate beer," he confessed to Race after. They'd bought hotdogs for lunch and were sitting in the square, relaxing. "But I need the quarter. Gave half my cut to a kid yesterday. Didn't have time to get any savings when I left Brooklyn."

"Oh, you have savings. Must be nice."

Sammy quirked his lips. "First thing Spot taught me. Take ten percent of what you earn and hide it away. So, I do." He rubbed the back of his neck. "So, a horse?"

"Hot tip. Gonna earn me double what I made today. Triple. And the best part, no way to lose." He shoved the last of his hotdog into his mouth and climbed to his feet. "Wanna come with me?"

"To Sheepshead?" He laughed. "Not today." He finished off his hotdog and pulled out a cigarette. "I'll be fine. Got lots to entertain myself with." He smiled. "Good luck."

"Friend, I don't need luck. I've got a sure thing." He spat in his hand and held it out to Sammy.

Sammy did the same. They shook and parted ways.

Puffing on his cigarette, Sammy headed back into town. First, he stopped by the lodging house and reserved himself a bed, obtaining a pass to get in late as well. Then he headed out.

His home was Brooklyn and he knew every inch of his borough, but he'd spent enough time in Manhattan to become familiar with certain aspects of her. One was Union Square and the vaudeville houses. He knew Jack Kelly was close friends with Medda Larkin, a popular vaudeville performer at Irving Hall, but Sammy preferred the Victoria.

He went there now, checking his reflection in a nearby window and making sure there was no blood anymore. Assured that he didn't look too disreputable, he went to the stage door and knocked.

It opened, and Bailey appeared.

His eyes widened when he saw Sammy. "Christ, kid, what happened?"

"Fight. It's nothing, I'm fine. Got any work?"

Bailey shook his head but stepped back and waved Sammy inside. "You need to come around more and be two years older, because what I need is someone to work the flies today."

"No, I can do it!" Sammy protested. "I'm a fast learner."

"I know you are, kid, but we go on in an hour and a half and there's just no time. I've got Albert doing it. You can do his job. I need you to sweep and mop the stage, then go through the house and make sure it's clean. After that, report to the property master and see what he needs from you." He handed Sammy a broom. "Mop's already onstage. Go!"

"Thank you, Bailey!" He grabbed the broom and got to work.

It didn't take too long to get through the list of chores he'd been given. The property master didn't give him too much to do, just to set the props in their given spot and make sure everything was there for the actors. The best part was not only did he get to watch the show, but he was given seventy-five cents for his work. It was a lot for doing something he'd do for free, but Sammy took it without pointing that out.

Actually, the real best part was that Albert let him work some of the flies. Sammy got to lower one of the backdrops into place and raise the curtain. It'd been easy and fun and everything he wanted.

Sammy knew, he _knew,_ deep in his heart, he was destined for a factory when he got too old to sell. He was just some dumb kid from the streets, no real education, no real talent in anything. He was strong, he was fast, and he was silent. But he was just a street rat. He'd be a newsie until he got too old, and then he'd get a job in a factory and that was his life.

But. But if he could, if he had the choice, he knew where he wanted to be. In the theater. Behind the scenes. Working the flies and the scenery and helping them make the magic. So, whenever he could, he snuck into Manhattan, to the Victoria, and asked for work. And because Bailey liked him, he always got some.

Maybe. Maybe one day, if he was really lucky, it would turn into something more.

Until then, it was carrying the banner.

"Thanks for your help today," Bailey said as he locked up the theater. "You got a place to stay tonight?"

"Yeah, I do. But I gotta get going or I'm on the streets."

"Well, go, go. Will I see you tomorrow?"

He shook his head. "Probably not. But soon."

"Anytime, kid. I do want to train you on the flies."

"Thought I wasn't old enough."

"One day you will be. And then…"

Sammy grinned. "Thanks, Baily. See you around." Then, he took off running.

He made it to the lodging house just before they locked the doors. Kloppman accepted his pass with a raised eyebrow and shooed him upstairs.

Sammy washed up and found an empty bed next to Race. Race looked downtrodden, laying on his back, chewing on his cigar.

"You okay?" Sammy asked. "Everything go well at the track?"

"Does it look like it went well?"

"Sorry." He pulled out a quarter and flipped it over to Race.

Race closed his fist around it. "I said you didn't owe me nothing but a favor."

"Yeah, well, my horse came in tonight. Just take the money."

"Oh, I ain't saying no to the money."

"Shuddup!" someone shouted. "I'm trying to sleep!"

Sammy smiled. "Night, Race."

"Night, Sammy."

* * *

Spot woke up the next morning in a foul mood. A foul mood but feeling much better than the day before. The black cloud was gone, and his head wasn't pounding. He'd bathed, so he didn't stink of sour liquor anymore, and, all in all, he felt more human.

Just, more human in a bad temper. Because Sammy hadn't come home, and Spot was left remembering the terrible way he'd treated the other boy.

As much as he'd like to wallow in his temper, he had work to do. He got up, got dressed, and headed out with his boys.

Then, the day got worse.

"Sixty cents!" shouted one of the boys. "Spot, you seeing this?"

He stared up at the board in dismay. Sixty cents for a hundred papes. Meaning he'd have to buy ten more just to make as much as he did on a normal day. Greedy cocksuckers. They was always out to screw the little guy.

"I'm barely making my sales as it is," Bruiser said, cracking his knuckles. "Now I gotta buy more just to make what I did yesterday? It's a crock."

"It is," Spot agreed. "But it's also reality. What else we gonna do?"

"Not sell until they put the price back!"

He laughed and looked at Bruiser askance. "You wanna go on strike? We's unskilled labor, moron. We's replaceable. We don't sell, there's a hundred others waiting to take our place."

"So we soak 'em."

Spot shook his head. "It'd never work." He let out a breath and adjusted his cap. "Boys," he said, turning to face them, "I know this ain't fair. I know it seems hard. But we is newsies. We is Brooklyn. They want us to buy ten more papes, we'll buy twenty more and sell 'em all. Because we's the best. The best at hawking, the best at selling, the best in the whole city. All around, boys is waking up to this unfortunate news, and they is thinking that they'll never be able to do it. But not my boys. Not Brooklyn. We will sell our papes, and we will sell more papes than ever before. We will show those at the top that they can't break us, that they can't scam us. Because we is Brooklyn!"

"Brooklyn!" the cry went up.

When the gates opened, Spot was as good as his word. He bought twenty more papes than usual. Inspired, his boys followed suite, even Rolli and Shortstop. Then, like an army marching to war, they headed out to the streets and began an impassioned day of selling.

It was near noon and Spot was down to five papes when, from out of the shadows, Sammy appeared.

Spot froze.

The other boy looked awful. His nose was swollen and there were dark bruises under both his eyes. His left eye was double bruised, both underneath and across the lid. That eye was bloodshot, the whites all red. Even though it'd been washed, Spot could still see the remnants of dried blood on his shirt, too.

Sammy was panting, sweating, hair plastered to his forehead. Obviously, he'd been running, and Spot was intrigued. Sammy rarely rushed anywhere, not unless it was important. Urgent.

Spot's heart started to pound wildly in his chest. Generally, their fights were resolved because time passed and cooled their tempers. They never talked about what had happened between them, just let it drop. But this was different. This secret between them, what had been exposed… Spot knew Sammy wasn't just going to let it go.

And Spot really didn't want to deal with it right now.

He swallowed and adjusted his grip on his papes.

Sammy stopped in front of him. "Jacky's boys is striking."

He let out a breath, feeling like he'd been punched. Not because of the news, but because of the reprieve. "What?" Because he heard the words, but had been so wrapped up in his anxiety, wasn't able to process them.

"'cause of the rate hike. They's refusing to sell papes and are starting a strike. Gonna send out ambassadors to all the boroughs, get 'em involved. Take their demands to Pulitzer."

"Striking."

Sammy nodded.

"Is he stupid? It won't never work. They's gonna starve in the streets waiting for Pulitzer to cave. It won't happen."

"He's got a new man that thinks it might work. Davey."

Spot snorted and rubbed between his eyes. "They got a plan?"

"They're forming a union. Jack's president." He shrugged. "I think we should listen to what they have to say."

"Sammy. We got no power against giants like Pulitzer. And Jack's a screw up. His brain ain't even here half the time. Cowboy's got one foot out the door, half a country away." He shook his head. "He won't see it through."

"We could."

Spot shook his head. "I can't risk my boys on a gambit like this. We need to eat. Autumn's coming, then winter, and we don't got enough saved away in case things get bad."

"We got over thirty dollars."

"It's not enough. Remember last year when Skids got pneumonia and almost died? We had to spend all that money on a doctor and medicine and didn't have enough to help Roger when he broken his ankle. Poor kid landed in the Refuge because we wasn't prepared. That ain't happening again."

Sammy huffed out a breath. Rubbed the back of his head. "Bailey said there's work for me in the theater. Don't know how much it'd pay, but it might be almost three dollars a week. I could do that while we're striking, help keep us covered."

"They're going to come after us," Spot said. "With clubs and chains and other weapons. You know what they're doing to the trolley workers. Think we're gonna be any better? And first time it happens, Jacky and his boys are going to roll over and surrender."

"Jack's no coward."

"Then he can prove it to me. They want me, they gotta show me they're serious."

Sammy thought about it a moment, then nodded. "You're right. We only join if they can show that they're in this for good. But if they do, we join, because this rate hike is bullshit."

"All right. Then we know what to say when the ambassador gets here." He ran a critical eye over Sammy. "You sleep?"

"Some."

"Eat?"

"Not today. Was gonna after I sold a few, but with no one in Manhattan selling…"

Spot pulled a nickel out of his pocket and pressed it into Sammy's hand. "Go get something to eat and head down to the docks. I'll be there in an hour."

"I got money."

He waved Sammy off. "Just take it." He swallowed and ducked his head. "You couldn't have had a good selling day yesterday." It was the closest he was going to get to an apology.

Sammy was silent a moment, then said, "We ain't done talking, by the way."

He couldn't meet Sammy's eyes. "I know." He kicked dirt on Sammy's shoes. "Get outta here. I got work to do."

Sammy tweaked his hat, turned, and walked away.

Spot let out a long breath, watching his shadow go. That wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting. And Sammy had come back sooner than Spot had thought he would, too. Maybe this rate hike and Jack Kelly's strike wasn't such a bad thing.

Mood suddenly a lot lighter than it'd been in days, Spot lifted a pape over his head and started shouting the headline with gusto. He papes to sell.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a sense of relief among the boys when Sammy got to the docks. As the boys staggered in from selling—and every one of them sold every pape they'd bought—and saw Sammy sitting there, tension and anxiety melted from their faces. They started grinning and pounding him on the back, overjoyed that he and Spot had made up and all was right with the world again.

It made Sammy feel guilty for letting the fight happen. He'd known Spot wasn't right that night. Sammy could tell he'd been spoiling for a fight. He always was after his nights away. Usually, Sammy tread lightly on those nights.

But the revelation as to what Spot was doing had screwed with Sammy's head. He'd been so horrified and confused, he'd spoken without thinking.

Despite what he'd said, he didn't think Spot was a whore. He didn't think any less of Spot for what he'd done. He was just sorry that Spot had ever thought it was necessary.

Sammy was ashamed he'd let it go on so long. He just thought that Spot was so mean coming back because he was on something. Drunk, or some kind of drug. And who was Sammy to tell Spot what to do in his free time?

But not this. No more. There weren't no way Sammy was letting Spot go back to those men.

It made Sammy's blood boil, imagining Spot with those men. Imagining their hands on him, caressing, stroking. Their mouths kissing him. Making him feel good…

Well, it was better than hurting him, but Sammy still hated thinking about it. It made his head spin and heart clench, and he didn't want to examine why too closely.

He pushed all that aside, leaving it for later. Or maybe never. Instead he joked with the fellas. He praised Rolli-Polli and Shortstop, who'd sold all their papes, even the extra they'd bought. He told the older ones about the strike and what Spot had decided.

And he waited for Spot.

He came a little over an hour after he and Sammy had spoken, bearing a pastrami sandwich for them to share.

"Anything yet?"

Sammy shook his head and took his half.

"Got some kids from Queens and Harlem come by," Spot said. "Said what you did about Manhattan, wanting to know if we was going to join."

"You tell 'em?"

Spot nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I'll be impressed if anyone else strikes," he said around his mouthful. "And surprised. Got the feeling they was waiting on us."

"Wonder why we's the last to be told."

"Probably all to scared to come here," Spot scoffed.

Sammy grinned. "Yeah, you're a monster, Spot."

Spot shoved Sammy with his shoulder, almost jostling him off the barrel they shared.

"My concern is if we don't join up, Jack will decide to take an exception to your sojourns to the theater. Don't want you to get soaked."

"They soak me, we soak Race for going to Sheepshead." Sammy shrugged. "Ain't like I'm selling when I'm there. And Race sells sometimes."

"True."

"Spot! Spot!" A little kid, Shoestring, came racing up the dock, red faced and out of breath.

"What's the matter? Bulls after you?"

Shoestring gulped for air, shaking his head. "Jack Kelly, Boots, and another kid is coming."

Spot and Sammy exchanged glances. "Nothin' but the best for us, huh? Tell the boys to let 'em through. I want to hear about this strike from the horse's mouth himself."

* * *

Spot had to hand it to Jack, he chose his Mouth well. The kid was smart. Knew exactly what Spot wanted to hear and delivered it with an earnest tone that made him sound sincere.

Yeah, Jack and the Mouth were smart.

But Spot was smarter. And he wasn't risking his kids for anything less than a sure thing.

He and his boys watched as Jack, Boots, and Mouth walked away, defeated.

"Shadow," he said.

The other boys appeared at his side, arms crossed over his chest.

"I know it's a lot to ask, but you's the best eyes I have. I send anyone else to Manhattan, they'll be spotted in a second. I need someone who won't be seen to see what they do when the evening edition comes out."

"Quarter says they roll over," Froggy said.

"No." Spot shook his head. "No, they's gonna try. But how's they gonna try, that's what I want to see. And what they do if there's resistance." He looked at Shadow.

The other boy looked exhausted. Sweat stood out on his face over a layer of grime that was laid over the dark bruises. His mouth was pressed in a thin line. Poor kid had been running all over New York all morning, and now Spot was asking him to do it one more time.

"You're the only one they won't see, Shadow," he said, voice an apology.

Sammy smiled wryly. "'course I'll go." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll be back tonight."

"Got any money?"

"Yeah. I sold yesterday and got some at the Victoria."

"Make sure to eat."

"Yes, mother."

The boys all laughed.

Spot hit Sammy on the butt with his cane. "Get out of here. Sooner you're gone, sooner you'll be back. Watch what they do and let us know."

Sammy tipped his cap and then strolled off.

Spot watched him go. He'd make it up to Sammy somehow. But, then, Sammy understood that this was just the price of doing business. He was the right hand of the King of Brooklyn, and that wasn't an easy job to have. Sometimes, it was more work than others, and Jacky and his boys was making that work necessary.

Of course, they hadn't been the reason Sammy'd been in Manhattan earlier. That had been all on Spot.

His black mood began rolling back over him. He retreated to a quiet corner of the docks.

The thing was… the thing of it was, Red hadn't prepared Spot properly for the reality of being head of the Brooklyn newsies. And that was because Red hadn't been half the leader Spot was. Oh, he'd done some. Led by example. Sold more than any other newsie, taken new boys under his wing and taught them the game. Sometimes he'd send some food in the direction of a hungry kid or suggested a duo team up 'cause they might sell more if they were partners. But, mostly, he was just in it for himself. Selling because he needed money, needed to eat. He was leader because he was the biggest, the toughest, and best at selling.

Spot wasn't those things. Well. He was the best at selling. No other kid in Brooklyn could match him for numbers. But he wasn't the biggest. He wasn't the strongest. What he was, was the smartest. And he cared the most.

When Red had left to work the railroad out west, Spot had taken over and organized. He'd gotten the boys who were selling truckloads to put away a few cents every day, into a general fund. Sure, he and Sammy put away the most, but everyone put in some. That way, when things happened—like Rolli losing his papes to the milk truck—no one starved. Anyone got sick, they were looked after. Got hurt, the newsies helped out. They was a family, and Spot would do anything for them.

So, when Victor Prentiss had approached him and suggested that, if Spot let Victor and his friends have Sammy for an evening, it would be worth Spot's while, he hadn't rejected it out of hand. Oh, not Sammy of course. The very idea of anyone laying their filthy mitts on his shadow made Spot's head spin with anger. But the proposition itself…

Five dollars for a few hours. And then Spot got them up to fifteen. And alls he had to do was touch their dicks or let them touch his. They fed him. Gave him drinks. Stripped him bare and touched him all over.

It was easy money. Sometimes, it felt like stealing. And it ensured that no one went hungry and anyone sick got what they needed.

Near thirty dollars? Spot had near a hundred dollars squirreled away. It weren't for him; it were for his boys. He just could never let Sammy know because of the questions it'd cause.

But now Sammy knew. And all those feelings that Spot felt when he thought about his nights were up for examination.

Out of everybody, Sammy was the last person Spot had wanted to find out. Even Bruiser would be better. Oh, sure Bruiser would soak Spot. Might even kill him for being queer. But that was better than disappointing Sammy.

Because Spot had known, deep down, that Sammy wouldn't care about Spot being queer. He'd care about Spot being a whore, but not about the queer part.

Everyone looked up to Spot. Everyone admired him. But he only cared about one person's respect: Sammy's. Because Sammy, well…

Sammy was his world.

Spot swallowed and rubbed his eyes. He had no idea how they were going to get past this. Because, whether Sammy admitted it or not, they needed the money. He and Sammy were getting older. A few years, they'd have to move on, move on from selling papes, move on from the lodging house, move on from being a kid. Maybe Sammy could get work in the theater, but Spot? He was heading to a factory. And that didn't pay so good. If he and Sammy could move into that life with a cushion, well…

But it was different now. Sammy knew. And Spot felt so dirty, so humiliated, so low over it, he wasn't sure how to handle it. He could almost kiss Jack for starting this stupid strike. It came exactly at the right time and was exactly what he needed.

A distraction.

Spot would take that distraction. He hoped that Jack and his boys really did follow through. That Brooklyn would have a reason to get involved. That they could drag this thing out for weeks, until Sammy forgot what he'd learned that fateful night.

Well. That might be too much to hope for. But whatever kept him and Sammy busy, whatever stopped them from talking, that was good enough.

"Please, Jack," Spot muttered, clenching his fist. "Don't let me down."

It was around eight when Sammy got back from Manhattan. He arrived at the lodging house looking exhausted, bruises under his eyes even darker than before. Under the grime and sweat of the day, his face was sort of pale, like he got when he hadn't had enough sleep.

"What happened?" Spot asked when Sammy pushed back the sheet and entered his and Spot's sleeping nook.

Spot scooted over on his bed, making room for the other boy.

Sammy collapsed on the bed and rolled onto his back. He took off his hat and extracted a cigarette from the brim. "I think they's serious. At least enough to cause some major damage."

The corners of Spot's mouth curled. "Damage?"

He lit his cigarette. "They tore apart the evening edition. Papes everywhere. Weasel called the bulls. Everyone but Crutchie got away, and the World looked like a hurricane had hit it."

"Sounds bad."

Sammy blew a ring and kicked off his shoes. "There's no way Pulitzer is going to let this pass. He's got to retaliate."

"You think he's gonna come down hard?"

"He just got destroyed by a bunch of kids." He blew another ring. "Weasel was pretty scared if he called the bulls. And the Delancey brothers is already taking money to beat up trolley strikers. They got connections."

"Tomorrow is going to be a bloodbath."

"Yup," Sammy agreed.

Spot tilted his head back and rested it against the wall. "So. What's Jack's plan for tomorrow?"

"Probably the same thing. Only Jacky don't think, so he won't see the bloodbath coming. Thinks they're winning."

He thought about it. On the one hand, winning one minor skirmish didn't mean the Manhattan boys was serious about this. The real test was tomorrow, how they'd react to some real resistance. On the other, it made Spot feel a bit uncomfortable, leaving newsies to get slaughtered. He really didn't think Pulitzer would take into account that they was just a bunch of kids. He'd bring the ax down hard.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Sammy shrugged and flicked some ashes on the floor. "I'm with you, Spot. Whatever you decide."

"I just don't want any of our boys hurt. But, this price hike… We sold out today, but it wasn't easy, not for anybody. It won't happen every day." He rubbed his thumb over his chin. "I wouldn't mind sending Pulitzer a message."

Sammy raised his eyebrow and met Spot's eyes.

It was clear what they needed to do. The rake hike was bullshit and rolling over for Pulitzer felt wrong. Jacky and his boys were gonna get soaked tomorrow, and that would end the strike. They needed support.

"I say… fifteen guys on the roof, our best sharpshooters," Spot decided. "Our bruisers outside the gate, ready to come in. Because they'll close the gate on Manhattan. Try to trap them in with the strike breakers." He rested his head on Sammy's shoulder. "No little kids. Not for this. We leave anyone under twelve to strike here."

"Let's leave Ricky with 'em. He's got that breathing problem, and I don't think he needs to be in the middle of a fight. "

Spot shook his head. "You're right. So, the kids stay and strike here. We go to Manhattan and save our brothers."

"Mmm," Sammy hummed.

Spot glanced over.

Sammy's eyes were closed, his cigarette hanging limply out of the corner of his mouth. His breathing was evening out and tension lines relaxing.

Spot grinned. "You're going to burn down the bed," he said. He sat up and leaned over Sammy. Plucked the cigarette from his mouth.

Sammy's eyes opened. They were hazy and unfocused.

Spot's breath caught. Helpless, like always, looking into those gorgeous eyes.

"Spot," Sammy whispered. "Don't like to think about those men touching you."

A shiver of cold went up Spot's spine and his stomach twisted. "Sammy…"

"You's special, Spot." He reached up and put his hand on Spot's cheek. "Don't deserve to be used like that."

Breathing very carefully, Spot crushed the cigarette between his fingers. He swallowed. "It ain't…"

"Yeah, it is. It's exactly like that. Because they don't see you. And what you are. How wonderful you are." He shook his head and stroked Spot's cheek with the back of his hand. "Not like I do."

His eyes prickled. They strayed down to Sammy's lips, and for a wild moment, Spot thought about leaning down and pressing his own lips to them.

Sammy snored.

Tearing his eyes away from Sammy's mouth, Spot looked up.

Sammy's eyes were closed. His hand fell away from Spot's cheek and lay limply on the bed.

Spot let out a shaky breath. He swallowed hard. Pulled Sammy's cap off his head and leaned down and brushed his lips over Sammy's forehead before he lost the nerve. Then, feeling shaky and stupid, he stood up and went to tell the rest of the boys the battle plan for tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

"Never fear, Brooklyn's here!"

Just as Spot planned, Brooklyn swooped in just in the nick of time and saved Manhattan's collective asses. Judging by Racetrack's panicked shout, it seemed that they hadn't been expecting the goons. They'd gone in overconfident, thinking that just because yesterday had been theirs, today would be the same.

Just like Jack, never thinking ahead.

Except, Spot supposed, he had thought ahead somewhat. Enough to send out people to the various boroughs, asking for support. He'd known they couldn't do it on their own. He'd known they'd need Brooklyn.

Spot and his boys provided the distraction Manhattan needed to take the upper hand against the hired mob. Brooklyn rained down a hail of shooters, pinging the goons wherever they could. Once the fight was more equal, Spot was able to get to the gates and throw them open.

And then his army came.

Sure. Weasel and Pulitzer had recruited full grown men to crack the skulls of the newsies. And, sure, they was big. But so was Brooklyn. And they came armed and spoiling for a fight. For all that they'd sold big the day before, Spot's boys was angry. Angry at the rate hike, angry at the extra work they'd had to do, angry that the grown-ups was taking advantage of them. Again.

Pulitzer's goons might have had age on their side, but the newsies had righteous indignation.

The goons never stood a chance.

The newsies fought and fought hard. Eventually, their sheer numbers overwhelmed the hired men and pushed them back. The men fled in terror, limping off, wounded and demoralized. The newsies got the gates closed and started cheering and celebrating with abandon.

"Spot!" Jack crowed. He worked his way through the crowd, smile splitting his face from ear to ear. "You came! What made you change your mind?"

Spot shook his head. His heart was pounding, and he couldn't stop grinning. "It was never a no, Jack. It was always conditional. You needed to prove that you was serious, and you did yesterday afternoon."

Jack's eyes flicked over to Sammy, who was listening to the Mouth and Race yammer on. "Wasn't sure if you'd hear about that."

"I got eyes everywhere." Face falling, he added, "Sorry to hear about Crutchie. Need help springing him?"

"Naw." Jack shook his head, frowning. "Tried last night, but the Delanceys, well. They worked him over good and, uh. He couldn't make the escape. It's gonna be awhile before we can get him out."

That definitely put a pall on the afternoon. Spot barely knew the other boy. But the kid was a newsie and a damn good one. Wasn't right that one of their own should be locked up in a place like the Refuge. Spot had been lucky; he'd never been and never intended to go. But he'd heard the stories. Knew the reputation. It wasn't a place for anybody, much less a kid that wasn't strong to begin with.

"Just say the word, Jacky, and we'll get him out. Worked over or not."

"Thanks, Spot." He turned to survey the still celebrating boys. Papes were flying everywhere, kids running and screaming. "So," Jack said. "What next?"

Spot twirled his cane. "I think it's time to make a strategic retreat before the goons regroup and come back at us. We made our point for today, we don't need to stand around and attract more attention." He turned and saw the crowd of people standing around watching the boys outside the gates of the world. Some were clapping and most were smiling.

It gave Spot an idea.

"Who's your youngest?"

"What?"

"Your youngest newsie. You need a few of them. Send them out to collect money from the bystanders. We's gonna need a fund."

Jack turned to see what Spot was looking at, then turned. "Les! Peanut!"

The boys turned. Jack waved them over.

"What do you need, Jack?" the littlest one asked, breathless and flushed with excitement.

"Get your caps out and see what money you can get from that crowd. Tell 'em it's for the Newsie Strike Fund. Put all your charm into it, Les, everything I taught you about selling."

Les nodded. The two boys took off.

Sammy came and took his place beside Spot.

"Any damage?"

He shook his head. "Blink got hit with a shooter and is bruised. Skittery got kicked and pulled a muscle in his leg. All in all, we was lucky."

"Lucky? We creamed 'em!" Jack said.

Sammy and Spot exchange glances. Sure, the Manhattan newsies had gotten in their licks, but without Brooklyn, they'd be busted.

Jack caught the look and immediately came back down to earth. "Uh, thanks to you." He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around. "Anyway, thanks for the help. But, like you said, maybe we should retreat to neutral grounds."

It took some doing, but they eventually rounded everyone up. The crowd outside the gates had grown, and there were a lot of people in a giving mood. The boys got stopped by lots of people, all wanting to ask about why theys was striking. Unlike the trolley strike, which mostly seemed to annoy everyone, people seemed sympathetic to the newsie's plight. The little ones' hats were soon sagging with change for the fund, and even some of the older boys were given money. Unsurprisingly, the Mouth was the best at explaining the reasons behind the strike. He even made an eloquent plea for everyone to switch over to the Sun until Pulitzer conceded and the strike ended.

"Why the Sun?" Spot asked as they headed to Tibby's, a restaurant Jack said would serve them.

"We got a reporter that works for them reporting on the strike," Jack answered. "Name's Denton. He's the one that took our picture."

Spot nodded, excitement stirring in his belly. His picture, in the paper. Imagine that.

The wait staff at Tibby's didn't look exactly happy to see the boys, but they let them in. Every boy ordered a round of water and staked out a place.

"Let's see the money," Spot said, fingers itching.

The boys brought their caps over and dumped out what they'd earned. A lot of change, of course, but there were quite a few bills mixed into the take. Even one fiver. Spot wondered if that'd been a mistake.

He arranged everything into neat piles and counted it over three times. "Nineteen dollars at thirty-seven cents. Not bad for a start." He tapped his fingers on the table and looked at Jack. "The fair thing to do would be to split it, so each of us has a stock pile."

"Seventy-thirty," Jack said, like he just couldn't help it.

Spot glanced at Sammy, who rolled his eyes.

"Jack," Spot said. "Let's be real here. Without Brooklyn, you boys would have been soaked. Your strike would have been over. We saved your asses. Now. If you don't want this strike to succeed, that's fine. I'll take my boys and go back to Brooklyn. And you'll be on your own. But if you want to win, we's equal partners and you recognize that just like you, I got boys to look after too. Boys that ain't selling on account of you."

"On account of Pulitzer," the Mouth said. "We're here because of him, not because of Jack. Jack's just the one who was brave enough to take a stand."

Spot clenched his jaw.

"Plus," Jack said, leaning back and draping his arm on the back of Davey's chair, "it's gonna have to come down to need. I hear things too, Spot. I know about how your boys give you part of their earnings every night, and how you set it aside just in case. We don't do that in Manhattan. My boys have what they earn, and they ain't earned in two days now. You got your boys covered; I don't. Sixty-forty."

His blood started to boil. He felt Sammy put his hand on the back of his chair, fingers brushing his back, a subtle reminder to keep his cool. Spot didn't even have to ask what nitwit went around spreading how they did business in Brooklyn. A year ago, one of his boys, one that had never fit in and complained loudly when Spot had suggested he contribute to the fund, had defected to Manhattan. Well, Flushing, but by way of Manhattan. Kid was rough and touchy; he didn't fit in with most newsies and had been run outta both boroughs pretty quick. But, obviously, before he'd left Manhattan, he'd exposed some secrets.

It wasn't that Spot forced his boys to pay in. He requested. Suggested. And only the ones that was making enough to spare. A boy said no, he let it go, no trouble, no strings attached. The first time that boy got in trouble—had a bad selling day or missed a day on account of being too sick-and was taken care of by Spot and the fund, his tune changed, and he paid up after that. The system worked.

Shadow nudged his foot.

He turned and looked at the other boy.

He raised his eyebrow and shrugged. Spot could practically read his mind, _They's right_, Sammy was thinking. _We got the money._

And Sammy didn't know the half of it.

"All right," he agreed. "Sixty-forty."

Jack's smug grin made Spot want to punch it off, but he refrained.

"So," Jack asked, "what's sixty percent of nineteen dollars and thirty-seven cents?"

"Eleven sixty-two," Spot said sourly. At the Mouth's look, he said, "What? You think just because I don't go to school regular, I ain't got smarts?"

The Mouth swallowed and said, "No, just… that was really fast. I'm impressed."

Feeling a little less ruffled, Spot nodded.

Just then, the newspaper man came in, grinning. He was carrying a stack of papes. "Boys, you made the front page! What, are you all drinking water? Never mind that. You're on the front page! Food and drinks on me!"

Jack and the Mouth got up and rushed to him.

Spot looked at Sammy and grinned. "Front page of the pape and free food? This strike's looking better and better."

Sammy clapped Spot on the back. "We's gonna win, Spot. Pulitzer can't keep this up. Not with every boy in New York on strike."

"Only it ain't gonna be every boy. There's always scabs."

He shook his head and gave Spot a half smile. "Let's worry about that later. Right now, let's just enjoy the moment."

"But what comes next?"

"Spot. Your picture is on the front page of the newspaper. You ain't just king of Brooklyn no more. You's king of New York. Let the rest go, just for now."

He thought about it a moment, turning it over in his mind. King of New York. He liked that. "You know what I'd do if I was really king of New York?" he asked. "I'd get us a room at the Waldorf. Penthouse suite. A real bed with real sheets. A porcelain tub with boiling water. Room service." He grinned. "I could get used to that."

"One day, Spot. One day."

He grabbed Sammy by the wrist and tugged. "Let's go see our picture in the papes."

"Front page."

Damn straight.

* * *

The Brooklyn boys got back to the lodge almost past curfew. They got side-eyes from the staff, but since they weren't technically late, all the boys got let in.

It had been a successful day all around. They'd saved Manhattan, they'd started a collection, and the kids left in Brooklyn had thrown rotten fruit at Ressler and his sons, Brooklyn's version of Weasel and the Delanceys. They'd even gotten some financial support from bystanders for the cause. Thanks to the collection done in Manhattan, as well as Brooklyn's general fund, every boy had a bed and a hot meal despite the day of not selling.

Things was looking up.

It'd been decided that the newsies should hold a rally. Jack and the Mouth was working on securing a place. In the meantime, to make sure the other boroughs knew that this strike was serious, Manhattan and Brooklyn were sending out teams to each one, informing them of the plan going forward. They wanted to show a united front, to show that cooperation was the only way to win this. And they was going to win this.

"Spot," Daniels, the man who ran the front desk, said as Spot and Sammy entered. "Got a letter for you." He handed it over.

Spot's stomach sank when he saw the fine paper and familiar handwriting on the front. He shot a look at Sammy and took the envelope from Daniels. "Thanks." Then he turned and headed upstairs.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

Sammy was silent until they got to their bunk. Then he closed the curtain with slow deliberation and turned to Spot. "What. Is. It?"

"None of your business. It's not addressed to you, it's addressed to me."

"Since when you get letters?"

"You don't know everything about my life."

"Yeah, Spot, I do." He grabbed the letter from Spot's hand.

Spot launched himself at Sammy, but the other boy was too quick. He dodged and nimbly pulled himself on the top of the bunk. Then he tore the letter open.

"I'm gonna kill you." Feeling hot and cold at the same time, Spot pulled himself onto the bed and grabbed at the letter.

Sammy got his hand on Spot's chest and locked his arm, holding him at bay. "I take it this Victor Prentiss is the man that you go to every month."

"It's none of your…"

"Shaddup." He read out loud. "'Dearest Spot,'" he said, spitting the word 'dearest' with more venom than Spot had ever heard from Sammy, "'I read about the strike in the papers. Saw your picture. Beautiful as ever. The timing couldn't be more fortuitous.' Fancy word, that. He use that fancy mouth to suck your dick?"

Spot slammed his fists into the crook of Sammy's elbow. The other boy lost his hold and had to scramble back. Spot pounced at him, but Sammy slithered off the bunk and back onto the ground.

"'I'm having a party in a few days. I'd like you to be there. I can offer double what I normally pay you because I was to try some new things. I'll triple the offer if you bring your pretty friend. Think about it, darling boy. Strikes are hard and money will soon be tight. Your truly, Victor.'"

Spot rolled off the bunk and loomed over Sammy, pushing him against the wall. "You had no right to read that."

"But I did, so that's that." He folded the letter. "I'm going to kill this man."

"No you ain't." Then, more desperately, "Don't. I don't want you to land in jail over me."

"We'll see." He tore the letter in half, then tore those halves again. "You is never going to any of this man's parties again. If I see him anywhere near you, I will soak him so bad that he'll be seeing double."

"Sammy…"

"I don't care how tight money gets. We gots other ways. Hell, the Victoria always needs someone to double check their books. I've been telling you for months. Just come with me, do it and it'll pay. Maybe not as much as this does, but…"

Spot shook his head. A feeling of desperation was welling inside him, and he could feel his breath get short and throat tightening. "Are you looney? No one's gonna let a kid look over the financials of a real theater. That's all I am. We might play at being kings, Sammy, but we's just sixteen."

"Yeah, but you's a genius. And Bailey…"

"Get your head outta the clouds and back down to reality. We's newsies. Kids. We earn cents a day, barely enough to keep our head above water. No one's giving us a real job. No one's trusting me to look over their books." He grabbed at the torn letter. "You might not like it, but this is good money. And he's right. Things is going to be tight. I won't let you…"

"And I won't let you."

"Who is you to tell me what to do?" Spot shouted. He grabbed Sammy's shirt in both fists and shoved him against the wall. "You ain't in charge, and you ain't in charge of me! I do what I wants and no one is going to stop me, not even you."

Shadow reached up and put both hands on Spot's face. "But you don't wants to do this."

He panted, feeling outta control. "But…"

"Spot."

Tears stood in his eyes and he shook his head. "I don't… I don't want to go," he said, voice cracking. He swallowed hard. "But I can't let my boys starve."

"We ain't going to starve." He pulled Spot closer and rested their foreheads together. "You don't gotta do what makes you feel so bad."

"It's not all bad," he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I just… I hate them so much. Their hands and their mouths and the way they laugh. I hate it when they touch me. It feels good, but it's not what I want."

Sammy shook his head. "You don't never have to go back, Spot."

He gasped a few times, trying to get himself back together. "But what if someone gets sick?"

"We'll deal with it."

"What if it's you?"

"I'd rather die than have you go back."

Spot opened his eyes. "I can't live without you, though."

A delicate flush spread over Sammy's cheeks. "It ain't going to happen."

"But it might."

"Don't go borrowing trouble. We got enough to worry about." He slid his hands down Spot's face to his shoulders. Then around his back and held him.

Spot let out a long, shaky breath. He released his grip on Sammy's shirt and put his arms around Sammy. Relaxed against him, practically melting into the warmth and strength. He felt safe in those arms. Like nothing could hurt him. Like nobody was every going to touch him bad again.

"He won't stop at a letter," Spot said. He pressed his forehead against Sammy's neck and closed his eyes. "He'll come for me."

"Then you let me take care of him."

"Sammy…"

"Spot." Sammy pulled back and took Spot's chin in his hand. "Let me deal with him. This ain't all on you anymore."

Hesitantly, Spot nodded.

Sammy smiled. "Good." He leaned in and butted his head lightly against Spot's. "Let's get to bed. We's gotta trek all the way back to Manhattan tomorrow to strike, and I'm tired from today. You is too."

He was exhausted from a lot more than just today. He'd been fine when they'd gotten back. The letter and the fight, though, had taken it out of Spot. He felt like a limp rag.

"Uh, Sammy," he said tentatively as the other boy pulled away and started stripping for bed.

"Yeah?"

"I don't… I mean, I…" He licked his lip. "Mind sleeping with me tonight? I don't want to be alone."

Sammy turned. Studied Spot a minute, the nodded. "Yeah. Just don't hog the blanket."

"It's a million degrees right now. It's all yours."

He stripped to his shorts and climbed onto the bottom bed. A moment later, Sammy crawled in after him. They lay, facing each other in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the other boys setting down to sleep, too.

"You won't tell no one, right?"

Sammy shook his head. "It's our secret."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't got nothing to apologize for, Spot. You didn't do nothing wrong. It's them. They's the ones that did wrong."

"You don't think less of me?"

"Spot." Sammy put his hand on Spot's hip and rubbed his thumb, catching the place where fabric and skin met.

Tingles spread over Spot's skin, making him warm.

"Spot, you's the world. And what you did was brave and noble. I think you're tops." He leaned forward and pressed their heads together. "Now, close your eyes and go to sleep. Tomorrow's a bright new day."

Feeling warm and comforted, Spot closed his eyes and slid off into dreamland, Sammy right there with him.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days, the newsies fell into a sort of waiting pattern. Jack and Davey worked to secure Irving hall for the rally. Brooklyn and Manhattan sent teams to every borough, telling them about the strike and inviting them to the rally. They continued to strike outside the World. Fights broke out every day as more scabs showed up to take their jobs.

The goon squad did not appear again.

Sammy didn't trust this. Obviously, Pulitzer wasn't giving up, since the price hadn't gone back down. He wasn't ignoring them. He was planning something.

Sammy was spending most of his time in Manhattan, which bothered him. He spent his evenings at the theater, doing odd jobs for Bailey. Not working the flies like he wanted, but it was the theater and it was work.

Trouble was, he got out so late that there was no way to get back to Brooklyn in time to make curfew at the lodging house. Spot didn't want him sleeping on the street, so Sammy had been ordered to stay at the Manhattan lodge. Which was fine. It contributed to the general sense of comradery between the boroughs. Sammy got to know the boys better, and they got to know him, as much as anyone but Spot did. It was good.

But Sammy spent all his time worried about Spot. And Victor Prentiss.

His stomach turned over every time he thought about that man. And his parties. And his wanting to try something new with Spot. Sammy could only imagine what that meant.

He knew Spot didn't want to go back. He'd said as much. But Sammy knew Spot. If he thought his boys needed that money, he'd go back. He wouldn't even think of himself, he'd put the others first.

If Sammy wasn't there to stop him… to protect him…

Sammy rolled onto his back and stared at the bunk above him. It was late, but he couldn't sleep. Not after all morning of striking and all night working at the theater. He should be exhausted. Instead, he was worried about Spot.

He wasn't used to being separated from the other boy. Now, he was surrounded by the sounds and stinks of a bunch of kids that wasn't his family. Not the one he was used to. Not the one whose snores lulled him to sleep each night.

But this was only temporary. Just until the strike was over. It couldn't last forever. One of these days, Pulitzer was going to have to give in

Or they were.

He sighed and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball. He couldn't think like that. He had to keep faith.

* * *

"I say that what you say? Is what I say," Spot declared. The hundreds of newsies packed into Irving Hall immediately broke into raucous cheers.

Brave words. Bold words. Stop soaking the scabs and let 'em sell. Try and talk 'em down with words instead of fists. It was a crazy idea, but Spot could see the logic. The had to show the world they weren't just dumb kids out for a fight. They was serious.

Unfortunately, so was Pulitzer. And, at the rally, everything went to hell. The bulls and the thugs came busting in with clubs and chains, out for blood. And with every newsie in New York packed in the hall, things went turned bad real fast.

"Sammy!" Spot shouted, pushing through the panicking bodies surrounding him. "Sammy!"

"Spot!" he heard.

He turned in time to see Race being dragged away by a bull, dead to the world. He didn't see Sammy anywhere.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. He turned, swinging his cane.

The figure ducked. "It's me, Spot!"

"Sammy!" He threw himself at the other boy. Their heads knocked together, but Spot got his arms around Sammy and hugged him tight. "We gotta get out of here."

"They're here for Jack."

Spot nodded. "We get him out too. Any idea where he is?"

Sammy shook his head. "We'll find him." He grabbed Spot's hand and pulled. "Let's go."

They fought their way toward the front of the theater. It was like fighting a wave. They was pushed back and jostled. Sammy fell once and came back up bleeding from the mouth. Spot got punched and kicked, and there were bodies everywhere. Everyone was screaming, and Spot was glad he'd insisted that the littlest ones stayed in Brooklyn. They'd have been crushed in this.

They finally made it to the front hall. There were bulls all over, some on horses.

They saw Spot and Sammy. One of them shouted.

"Go back, go back!" Sammy cried. He turned and started pushing Spot back the way they'd came. Then he yelped and was ripped away from Spot.

He turned. "Sammy!"

Sammy swung at the man who'd grabbed him. Punched him square in the jaw.

The bull responded by smashing Sammy's face in with his baton.

Sammy went down like he was dead.

"No!" Spot screamed. He rushed to the other boy but was caught up off the ground by a strong pair of arms. "Let me go!" He squirmed and kicked and lashed out, but he was caught good. No matter what he did, he couldn't get free and, in no time, he was thrown into a police wagon.

There was other boys in the back. Race was lying in a heap on the floor, groaning as he came to. Boots was there, too along with Blink and Mush. They were all looking demoralized and beaten.

"Where's Jack?" Spot asked.

Blink shook his head. "They got him."

The doors to the wagon opened and another body was thrown in.

"Sammy!" Spot moved to the other boy and pulled him deeper inside. Pulled his head into Spot's lap. He stroked his hair back, wincing at the blood flowing down his face. "He's bleeding. I need… anyone got anything?"

Blink pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to Spot.

Spot wiped at the blood, dabbing at it gingerly until he was able to see where it was coming from. There was a flap of skin that'd gotten torn away at Sammy's hairline, and it was gushing blood. As the wagon started swaying, he pushed the handkerchief against the wound.

"Wake up, Sammy," he said. With his free hand, he stroked along Sammy's jaw. It was slightly swollen from where he'd been stepped on before. His teeth were all bloody, but they all seemed to be there. His face was a mess, fading greenish purple bruises mingling with the new darkening ones. And all of it covered with blood.

"He'll be fine, Spot," Blink said. "You know how head wounds are. They bleed like mad."

"I know." He swallowed and shook his head. "Poor kid's gonna forget what he looks like, he's been beaten up so much lately."

"You did that, right? The old ones."

"Yeah. Him and me had a stupid disagreement. Should never have done it."

"Eh, it's the price of life." Blink leaned his head against the wall of the wagon and closed his eye. "What do you think's gonna happen?"

"_Disaster_," was what he wanted to say. "_They're going to throw us_ _into the Refuge and throw away the key. Pulitzer is going to do what it takes to make us disappear."_

But he couldn't say it. He was one of the leaders of the strike, and it was his job to keep up moral.

"We'll cool our heels in a cell overnight. They'll let us go in the morning. We didn't do anything wrong. They was after Jack."

"You really think so?"

Spot gazed down at Sammy. Shrugged. "I don't know, Blink. I really don't."

In his lap, Sammy stirred. His face scrunched up and then he opened his eyes.

Spot smiled gently down at him. "How you doing, Sammy?"

"What's going on?"

"You got clubbed by a bull. We's head to jail." He checked to see if Sammy was still bleeding. "How's your head?"

"Hurts." He made like he was going to sit up, but Spot held him down.

"Just rest. Don't worry about nothing right now."

"I might throw up," he said sleepily, closing his eyes.

"If you do, aim for Race."

"Hey!"

"Okay," Sammy said, voice slurred with sleep. "You okay, Spot?"

"I'm fine."

"Good."

They continued to move for about ten more minutes. Then, the wagon stopped, and the back flew open.

"Get out one at a time," a bull yelled. "And don't try anything funny."

Groaning, Sammy sat up. He clutched his head and swayed, skin a sickly green under the bruises. Since he was closest to the door, he scooted to the edge of the wagon and let the bull roughly pull him out. Spot followed.

There was a cop for every one of them it seemed, iron hands on their shoulders, pushing them through the station. They were led to the back and shoved into a small cell, all them at in one. Once inside, Sammy crumpled to the floor, and Spot came up behind him.

"Up." He put his hands under Sammy's armpits and tugged until the other boy staggered back to his feet.

There was one cot in the cell, pushed against the wall. The thin mattress looked like it'd seen better days, but it was better than the grimy floor.

"I say we let Race and Shadow have the cot," he said, propelling Sammy to it. "They was knocked out the worst."

No one dissented, and Blink helped Race over to the cot. They got the boys arranged on it; there was barely enough room for the both.

Spot crouched next to Sammy and stroked a hand over his blood smeared forehead. "There's a bucket. You feel like you's gonna throw up, let me know." He looked over a Race. "That goes for both of you."

Race nodded, then immediately his face screwed in pain, as if moving hurt too much.

Spot caressed Sammy's face one more time, then stood up.

"Where do you suppose Jack is?" Mush asked.

"Probably got him in a separate cell. He's the one they was after," Blink answered. "You know Snyder and his obsession with Jack."

"You think they're gonna throw us all in the Refuge?" asked Boots after a moment.

The boys fell silent, contemplating that idea. Spot couldn't imagine anything worse. The stories one heard about that place… the bad food, the fact that you hardly ever got food, three boys to a bed, rats…

He bet the place was worse than advertised.

"They won't throw us all there," he said, finally. "We didn't do anything wrong."

"Since when does a kid haveta to do wrong to end up there?" Mush pointed out.

They fell silent again, subdued.

"Well. Standing around worrying ain't gonna change nothing." He shook his head and managed a smile. "I say we try and get some sleep."

"I'm not tired," Boots protested.

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

He thought about a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of marbles. "Wanna play?"

Spot exchanged looks with the other boys. They all looked worse for the wear: bruised and demoralized.

And they was all looking at Spot for guidance.

He smiled at Boots and took a seat on the floor. "Let's play."

* * *

"I fine you each five dollars or two weeks confinement in the house of Refuge."

Spot's stomach did a nose dive at the judge's pronouncement. He and Sammy looked at each other, horror written on their faces. Five dollars each. Ten dollars for the two of them. And the rest… There were near ten newsies that got taken last night all told, not including Jack. Fifty dollars.

The hell of it was, Spot had the money. He could get them all out, if the judge let him go back to Brooklyn for it. Which he doubted. But that fifty dollars could go to food for his boys during the strike. Clothes when it got cold. Blankets for the winter. Medicine for sick kids.

But two weeks in the refuge…

"I'll pay the fines, your honor. All of them."

Relief washed over Spot, but he didn't trust the newspaper man. Not fully. He got that Denton was in this for the story; as long as the newsies was news, Denton was going to keep feeding them and such. But was food was one thing. For a man like Denton, it was pocket change. Maybe this was too, but on the other hand…

What did he want in return?

Life had taught Spot that he couldn't trust adults farther than he could throw them. They always wanted something. Obedience, labor, a story, sex. What was Denton after? What was Spot going to have to give him?

He didn't like it. As he and Sammy were processed, he leaned over and said, "I don't trust this."

"I think he's sincere."

"Oh, yeah? What in it for him? What does paying the fines get him?"

Shadow shrugged and turned to look at Spot. "He's probably just a bleeding heart."

"Didn't Mouth say something about him being an ace war correspondent?" He turned and looked at Denton. "They ain't known for their bleeding hearts."

Just then, Jack, bruised and looking exhausted, was led into the courtroom. "Hiya, fellas! Hey Denton, guess we made all the papes this time, huh? How'd my picture look?"

And that's when Denton dropped the hammer. "None of the papers covered the rally. Not even the Sun."

Spot snorted. "And there we go. Goodness of his heart, sure. His guilty heart."

"Let's hear he has to say, at least. Maybe there's a good reason."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure." He shook his head. "We never shoulda trusted him. He…"

"Quiet," Race hissed. He nodded at the court, where Snyder was silkily unveiling Jack Kelly's sordid history.

Jack Kelly… Francis Sullivan. Mother deceased, father in prison. Not out west, like Cowboy had always said. Poor kid. But Spot had heard worse. Sammy's father had killed Sammy's mother in front of him. Spot'd never even known his father, and his mother hadn't been anything to write home about.

And then the judge delivered his sentence: incarceration until age twenty-one.

No matter how much they shouted and screamed, no one listened. They were hustled out of the room, still shouting their heads off, fighting against the court bulls.

"Keep fighting, and it's straight back to the cell," one of them finally said.

"All right, stop!" Spot shouted. He threw his hands up and stopped fighting. "Boys. Let's just go."

Davey was waiting outside. He looked like someone had kicked him in the face. Well. He had the look of a believer, someone who'd swallow whatever he was told. Spot? He'd never quite bought Jack's story about his parents. For one thing, it kept changing depending on who he told it to. Sometimes his ma was dead, sometimes his dad. Sometimes they was out west. Sometimes, they'd died going out west. Sure, it was consistent: someone was always going or had gone out west. But one consistent fact did not for a believable story make.

"Hey, Mouth," Spot said as they approached Tibby's. "Me and Shadow's going to go."

"What? Where? Why?"

"We need to get back to our boys in Brooklyn, sees how they made out. If they made it out. See to the state of things." He gave the Mouth a small smile. "We'll be back tomorrow to strike. We just needs today."

"Yeah, I get it." He held out his hand. "Thanks for your help last night."

Spot shook it. Then, he turned and clapped his hand on Sammy's shoulder. "Let's go."

They were silent as they traversed the city, lost in thought. They were almost to the bridge before Sammy spoke.

"Lucky Denton paid for us," he said. "I mean, I know you thinks he was trying to ease a guilty conscious, but that was a lotta money."

"Half our savings," Spot said.

"Is it, Spot? Is it really half our savings?"

Spot fell silent, poking out his lower lip. He swallowed hard and glanced at Sammy.

Sammy was looking at him with an expression of knowing.

He sighed. "Okay, no. I gots more."

"How much?"

"Near a hundred."

Sammy stopped in his tracks. "A … a hundred? You has a hundred dollars?"

"Well… I never spent any of the money they gaves me. I kept it, just in case something happened."

"So, we could have covered Roger when he broke his ankle."

Spot shook his head. "I only had twenty then." He swallowed. "I asked for more after that. Raised my prices."

"Don't."

He ducked his head. "It's the truth." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't ever going to use it on me."

"I never thought you were. Spot, you's noble. Too noble for your own good. I know that you'd do anything for us and wouldn't hold out on any of us." He slipped his hand onto Spot's shoulder and squeezed. "But you don't gotta do what you was."

"Double the price."

"No."

His eyes pricked suspiciously, and Spot nodded. He still didn't quite believe that he wasn't ever going back to Victor's house. He wasn't ever going to have to do those things never again, not with any of those men. He wasn't going to ever feel the humiliation of someone coming on his face, or making him come when he didn't feel like it, or of being exhausted and drunk and sick and still being touched like he was an object.

He was free.

"Spot!" Bruiser crowed when he and Sammy made it to Brooklyn. "What happened? We saw you get carried off by the bulls."

"Eh, it was nothing. A night in the cell, a day in court, nothing we couldn't handle." He slung his arm around Sammy's neck and pulled him close. "He's the real hero. Took a club to the face and lived to tell about it."

Sammy snorted and rolled his eyes. "'cause my head's made of wood. Not much to damage."

The boys all laughed.

"What's been going on here?"

Bruiser shrugged. "Nothing much. We all scrammed last night from the rally. Didn't make it back in time for curfew, but they actually let us in anyway. I think it's because there were only five boys without us. We've been striking all morning." He frowned. "Sent Sonny to get a copy of the Sun, like you said. But there wasn't story about the rally in it. Thought you said that newspaper man was going to write one?"

"He said none of the papes covered it but didn't say why. And we didn't stick around to find out." He rubs his face. "I think me and Sammy are heading back to the lodge now. We need to scrub the stink of prison off us."

The boys all laughed at the idea they'd been in prison. "You want us to keep protesting?"

"Only way to let 'em know. And keep the kids collecting; we need the money. Tomorrow, most of us will go back to Manhattan. Keep the pressure up there."

"Sounds good."

Spot turned and tugged Sammy with him. "Let's go get some rest, Sammy. I think we've earned it."

"Amen."


End file.
